


A Ray Amongst Goldfish

by JayEz



Series: Of manta rays and holidays [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Greg, Christmas, Christmas Party, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, No Smut, Post-Canon, Suits, background Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 02:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Certain that he would not survive his final confrontation with Moriarty, Mycroft agreed to attend a Christmas function with a plus one. Two months later his carelessness comes back to bite him – now he not only needs to attend the dreaded party, he also needs to find someone to play his partner for the evening. </p><p>(aka my way of saying, 'Happy Holidays, Sherlock fandom!')</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Ray Amongst Goldfish

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely love the fake/pretend relationship trope, and I have always wanted to write Mystrade - so I combined both, and I'm really happy with this. I’ve been waiting for December to come around to finally hit 'post' =) 
> 
> This is AU in that it is set post-season 5 while assuming Mycroft was under Moriarty’s thumb (see M-theory). I left what happened deliberately vague, but imagine this as taking place during Xmas 2016. 
> 
> Endless gratitude to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for being the amazing, inconsistencies-finding, Brit-picking beta that she is!

“Sir, Mrs Daly’s assistant just dropped off two invites to her annual Christmas party.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes at Anthea, genuinely confused. “Why?” 

“I hoped you knew, sir. All Miranda said was that you had agreed to go when Mrs Daly invited you.”

That sounds rather unlike him, Mycroft cannot help but think. While Barbara Daly might be the head of MI5 and thus a very important person in his professional life, Mycroft’s desire to avoid frivolous social functions outweighs the need to ply government officials with his presence at such gatherings. 

Frankly, he would not be caught dead at Daly’s annual holiday bash… oh. 

_Oh no._

“Sir?” Anthea steps closer to his desk. 

“It’s true, I agreed to come.”

And because she is the world’s best personal assistant, the only outward sign of Anthea’s reaction is an arched eyebrow and a promise to arrange a car for that day, the Wednesday before Christmas Eve, before leaving Mycroft to his contemplation. 

Two months ago, he was on his way to intercept Moriarty since it was the only thing he could do, given how Sherlock was still missing several pieces of the puzzle and walking into a trap. Barbara Daly was at the wrong place at the wrong time, pestering Mycroft about attending the Christmas party. He said yes just to shut her up, to get her out of the way, putting it out of his mind as soon as the woman was out of earshot. 

Well, he had not planned on returning from that particular outing, now, had he? He left his office completely aware of how risky it was. He did not expect to escape the madman that night. 

Yet when the smoke cleared in the wake of Jim Moriarty’s final act, Mycroft found himself both still alive and employed. He used to think of it as mercy. Now, however, faced with this wretched invitation to the Director General’s Christmas party, he is not so sure there is anything merciful about his survival. 

(Not to mention that having to listen to Sherlock gush about entering a romantic relationship with John certainly counts as torture in at least six countries.)

He could always decline. Or orchestrate a minor political meltdown that would allow him to bow out – his colleague at Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service still owes him a favour.

But to squander it on something so trivial? Mycroft shakes his head even though there is no one to see. Besides, Mrs Daly places much value on keeping your word. If he bowed out, she might make inter-agency cooperation difficult in the following weeks. Not to the point of hindering operations, but to a degree that would make Mycroft’s day infinitely more stressful. 

No, attending the celebration is the best course of action, even if it means wading through a pool of dressed-up goldfish for several hours. 

Then he remembers. Two invitations. 

_“And bring your partner! A man of your position must have someone on your side,”_ Daly had said, with Mycroft nodding along impatiently, his mental count down approaching critical values and spurring him into making up some imaginary life partner. 

Brilliant. Simply brilliant. 

Well, Mycroft is a man of superior intellect – finding someone to play his date for an evening should not be too hard.

*

Deciding on whom to ask proves almost embarrassingly easy. If he has to spend three or four hours surrounded by fake holiday cheer, it should be with a person who might make the experience bearable. 

And there is only one such individual in all of London. If the world is full of goldfish, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is a manta ray: clever, graceful, inherently docile but vicious when attacked. 

Mycroft has come to respect him even before the man figured out Moriarty’s spiel on his own and came to their aid in the final showdown, guns blazing as they say. With him, an evening of inane conversation surrounded by holiday décor might not actually spell Mycroft’s death. 

He has been inside Lestrade’s flat once, and it has neither grown in size nor become any less shabby in the past months. It is also still located on the third floor, which puts a strain on Mycroft’s leg despite the cane that has been his constant companion for two months. 

(He is lucky he can still walk – Moriarty’s henchman only missed because John Watson was the quicker shot, making the bullet go wide.)

When Lestrade returns home three minutes after Mycroft’s calculations said he would, the man immediately heads for the scotch in the kitchen. Mycroft watches him through the open living room door from his place in the armchair, indulging only for a moment and leaving the other man bent forward, scowling at the empty cabinet. 

“I hope you don’t mind, Detective Inspector,” he says eventually. Lestrade’s reflexes are still stellar. “Please, put the gun away before you embarrass either of us.”

Lestrade scowls at him, yet obeys. “What, no nondescript town car to chauffeur me to some gloomy warehouse?” 

“I’m here on a private matter,” Mycroft says, “and abusing my resources would have been unethical.”

“Oh, and suddenly you’re the expert on what’s ethical and what’s not, eh?”

The anger, Mycroft can easily deduce, is not directed at himself, not really. Lestrade spent the day trying (and failing) to contain Sherlock waltzing all over his crime scene, solving the murder even before forensics were finished, and leaving the detective with finding a way to prove his conclusions while Sherlock made his way to St Bart’s to annoy John during his lunch break. 

Be that as it may, Lestrade’s jibe is justified considering what Mycroft has done while under Moriarty’s thumb. 

“Touché, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade turns away, presumably to lock away his service weapon in the safe behind the coat rack near the front door, and Mycroft uses the thirty seconds to fill the second glass he brought into the living room with a few fingers of scotch. 

“Ta,” the detective says as he accepts it, flopping down on the battered sofa with a groan. “Your brother’s an insufferable git.”

“You mean regular sex has inflated his ego even more?” 

Lestrade downs the scotch in assent, then leans across Mycroft’s lap to grab the bottle on the side table. Mycroft swallows, heart in his throat. 

“Why’re you here, then? What’s this private matter?” 

He would love nothing more than to mince words, play with insinuations, yet he doubts the other man would appreciate anything but straightforwardness tonight. 

“I have come to ask a favour.”

“Last time you asked me for something I ended up with a cocaine addict who solved all my cases for me. Look how that worked out.”

He is referring to all the trouble Sherlock has caused him over the years, yet Mycroft decides to act dense. After all, Lestrade’s cooperation with his brother has also led to more than one promotion. “Splendidly, I’d say.”

“Bugger off,” Lestrade grumbles, and refills his glass with a vengeance before placing the bottle on the floor between their feet. 

Mycroft smiles. “I haven’t asked the favour yet. I would appreciate if you waited until then to throw me out.”

The man waves a hand. “Go on, then.” 

“It appears that on the day I was shot,” he begins after a pause, “I accepted an invitation to a Christmas party, knowing I wouldn’t be there to attend it. Now that I am, I find myself in need of a plus one.”

Lestrade blinks, the wheels inside his head obviously turning. On anyone else, Mycroft would find the sight off-putting, a sign of slow intellect, yet the past decade has taught him better: Lestrade is filtering through every aspect of Mycroft’s statement, selecting which to respond to. Mycroft hopes he will gloss over the ramifications – he received the sermon on why lone-wolf-type suicide missions are an abysmal idea when he woke up in hospital to an angry detective glaring at him. 

What Lestrade eventually settles on is, “Why don’t you just say you’re busy?” which prompts Mycroft into explaining the leader of MI5’s vindictive nature. 

“And why’re you asking me?”

It is fascinating how one simple question from Greg Lestrade can carry so many connotations: _Why are you asking a man? Why an ordinary detective? Why not someone who will fit in better? Why not hire someone?_

Mycroft choses his words carefully, eyes on his drink. “It is going to be a dreary event. I would rather spend it with someone I know and who won’t be intimidated by the crowd.”

“You’re doing a fine job selling the party, Mr Holmes.”

“All right, how about ‘open bar’, ‘five-star cuisine’, ‘better scotch than this’?”

He is rewarded with a genuine smile. Really, the detective should smile more. It suits him well. 

“And all I got to do is pretend to be your boyfriend?” 

“Some people would consider that a sufficient deterrent.”

“Well, some people find you intimidating.”

Mycroft raises a dubious eyebrow. Lestrade groans, running a hand through his hair and disturbing it even more than a day investigating a murder did. 

“Of course you know. I guess it’s pointless to ask how you know playing gay won’t be a problem for me either?”

Now it is Mycroft’s turn to smile. “Yes. You are smarter than that.”

Lestrade straightens on the sofa. His elbows come to rest on his knees as he considers Mycroft for a moment. “I’m not saying I’m in, but give me the details.”

“Barbara Daly, the Director General of the Secret Service, holds a holiday bash every year. Last time I was indisposed due to an international crisis, so I only know what to expect from secondary sources. Her guest list is quite exclusive. It is considered an important networking event, to be held at Claridge’s this year.” 

Unsurprisingly, the detective does not look enticed, though his expression softens a little when Mycroft explains that there aren’t many people who will know Mycroft or want to talk to him, concentrating their efforts on the influential businessmen and politicians on the guest list. 

“It begins at seven; dinner should be over at nine, and we will be able to bow out around ten without upsetting Mrs Daly. You will need a suit, which I’ll be happy to provide.”

“Oi, I own suits!”

“What you call a ‘suit’ is not considered business attire, Detective Inspector.”

“You know, Holmes, insulting my wardrobe isn’t a good strategy to get me to agree to this charade.”

“I’m not insulting anything, merely stating a fact.”

Lestrade snorts at that. He twirls his tumbler between his fingers, causing the liquid to swirl inside the glass. Mycroft tries to infer the man’s thoughts, yet unfortunately his face is rather blank. 

(It is a skill Lestrade acquired approximately two weeks into his acquaintance with Sherlock. Mycroft is both impressed and unnerved that it has proven rather effective.)

“I’m probably barking mad for doing this, but I’m in,” Lestrade eventually announces. “’S not like I’ve got any plans for Christmas.”

“Good. A car will take you to my tailor Saturday morning. We should meet prior to the party to conceive of a backstory.”

“Sure. Just kidnap me tomorrow for lunch,” Lestrade quips, then his face falls slightly when Mycroft confirms the suggestion with a glint in his eye as he rises from the armchair. “Damn, all right, just don’t actually stage a kidnapping…”

“I’m not making any promises,” is Mycroft’s wry reply, though he allows the corners of his lips to curl into the hint of a smirk. He can tell Lestrade saw it, and the man’s barked laughter follows him out of the flat and into the hallway. 

Huh. That went rather well. 

*

Greg wakes to the shrill ringing of his alarm and he has one blissful moment after hitting the snooze button before what happened last night comes rushing back. 

He groans into his pillow. Do people notice when they’re having a psychotic break? Because really, there’s no other explanation for why he agreed to pretend to be Mycroft Holmes’ partner for an evening. 

It’s a plan that’s bound to blow up in his face, considering the subtle crush he’s been harbouring for the mysterious man in bespoke suits ever since their first meeting in an abandoned warehouse about ten years ago. Well, at least the bloke is consistent. John laughed when Greg told him about it, since apparently John’s been subjected to the same treatment after meeting Sherlock.

He really thought the crush had gone away over time, but the past year only served to disprove that hope. Nothing like finding out the immensely powerful and stoic brother of your consultant with a work ethic even more impressive than your own does have a heart and has been trying to save his brother’s life from a criminal mastermind for years, going so far as to sacrifice himself. 

Mycroft Holmes is by no means a hero, yet he’s a good man in Greg’s eyes. This whole thing would’ve been considerably easier if the bloke were the bastard Greg had initially thought him to be. 

So yes. Psychotic break. At least he’ll get a couple of free meals and a bespoke suit out of it. 

*

A black car slows down next to him when Greg returns from hunting down a lead on one of his active cases. 

To his surprise, Mycroft Holmes is already inside, along with a portion of his favourite Hot Pot from the EAT near Scotland Yard. 

“Brilliant, I’m starving,” Greg says and digs in. Across from him, Holmes is eating fish and chips. Now that’s a sight Greg never would have thought he’d live to see. 

Once he’s done, Greg licks the remaining sauce off his thumb before wiping his hands on the paper napkins. Holmes squints at the movement, then wordlessly holds out a small package with wet wipes. Greg accepts it with a smirk. 

“So, I’m sure you already got a suggestion. Let’s hear it,” he prompts, leaning back against the comfortable seat and allowing himself to look at the dashing figure Mycroft Holmes cuts, obviously feeling at home in his three-piece suit. 

“We should keep it simple. All Daly knows from what I insinuated two months ago is that we have been together for a year, which would coincide with when your last divorce was finalised.”

“You were my rebound, then?” Greg can’t help but joke. “Or did you ask me out once the papers were signed?”

“That sounds like a reasonable course of action.”

“And I just said yes?”

“I’d rather imagine you thought it was a joke at first.”

Greg can’t but agree. At that point he’d have laughed in Holmes’ face. “But you insisted, took me out to some posh restaurant. In revenge I dragged you to my favourite hole-in-the-wall place from my academy days.” 

“Revenge, Detective Inspector?”

“I wanted to throw you off your game.”

“Did it work?”

Greg catches himself before he elaborates on the fantasy, before Holmes deduces that he has envisioned this prior to their ruse. Instead, he shrugs. “You tell me.”

Mycroft is silent for a moment. “I enjoyed the challenge, asked you on another date, which only hardened your resolve. Over time we grew to like each other’s company. And here we are.”

“Obviously we don’t see much of each other,” Greg adds. “With me running about catching thugs, and you off preventing wars.”

“And yet I decided to take you along with me to the Christmas party.”

“Maybe getting shot put things in perspective?” Greg suggests. “And I did visit you at hospital. Works in our favour now.”

That gets a smile out of the other man and Greg feels incredibly proud for putting it there. Undoubtedly Holmes is remembering the visits, three in total. The first spent shouting at the man for his own recklessness, the second updating him on how everything played out after Sherlock finally worked out how to defeat Moriarty, and the third smuggling a piece of Mycroft’s favourite cake into intensive care. 

“We’ll need to set some boundaries,” Mycroft says eventually. “We don’t need to be overly physical with each other, yet small gestures go a long way.”

“I’ve been undercover before, I know how it goes.”

“So you don’t have a problem with touching me?” Holmes’ tone is flat, his expression not betraying anything than reserved curiosity.

Greg swallows at the images suddenly filling his mind. “Wouldn’t have said yes to this if I did.”

“Good.” The car slows down. “Then I shall see you Wednesday after next, Gregory.”

Greg is too surprised at the brisk goodbye and the use of his first name to ask the same question in return. 

*

Because the universe has never really been on his side when it comes to his private life, Greg gets called in at three o’clock in the morning on Tuesday. 

It’s a tough nut to crack, too: the victim was stabbed in a park away from any security cameras, got to keep his wallet and car keys, even his ID that identified him as a 63-year-old CEO of a successful cleaning service. No traces of the perpetrator, no murder weapon, and no explanation as to why Mr Peterson would think a midnight stroll was a good idea. 

When Tuesday night arrives without either motif or suspect, even Sally narrows her eyes at him. “Maybe we should –”

“We’re not calling Sherlock!” Greg snaps, a little too harshly, but there is no way in hell he is voluntarily coming face to face with the younger Holmes when he is already nervous about attending a party with the older one. 

So no, Greg is going to solve the murder on his own. 

It takes until Wednesday afternoon but they eventually arrest both Mrs Pearson and her son for conspiring against the victim and murdering him with the son’s ex-boyfriend’s custom-made knife. 

He arrives at his flat with twenty minutes to shower and dress, leaving no time to panic about the shadows underneath his eyes or the state of his jaw. At least his suit looks good, the charcoal waistcoat hugging his torso above the black, fitted shirt with an open collar. The jacket alone probably cost more than Greg makes in a week, but it’s not his money so he barely feels bad about the expense. 

There is a knock on the door just as Greg pulls his recently dry-cleaned overcoat out of the garment bag. 

Mycroft, wearing a dark pinstripe suit with matching waistcoat but a burgundy pocket square and tie, looks surprised as he leans on his cane. “I was prepared to wait until you finished getting ready.”

Of course Holmes would know about that… “Decided shaving’s for the weak,” he explains, gesturing towards the stubble still dusting his cheeks. “Hope you don’t mind?”

Mycroft’s lips twitch. “Not at all. Rather complements the look.”

“Well, Renée said I have the jawline to pull it off.”

“He is a wise man.”

Greg snorts at the hilarity of it. He’s only grateful that the invitation was business dress code, not black tie. This way Greg didn’t have to choose a tie, only a pocket square, which as it turns out matches Mycroft’s. 

“New tie?” Greg asks with a grin. 

“Renée suggested it.”

Chuckling at the tailor’s subtle matching of their outfits, Greg buttons up his coat yet as he makes to grab his scarf, Mycroft stops him with a hand. 

That is how Greg ends up stepping out of the town car when it stops in front of Claridge’s wearing a brand new, burgundy cashmere scarf with his initials stitched into the fabric, courtesy of Mycroft Holmes. 

*

 _Stunning._

Yes, _stunning_ is the only word Mycroft can think of to describe Gregory Lestrade tonight. You would never believe the man has not slept in approximately forty hours either, not when he is smiling at the member of the staff accepting their coats. 

Renée did a marvellous job as always, yet the suit only adds to the natural allure Gregory already possesses. Mycroft has to forcibly tear his eyes away from the man on several occasions throughout the evening.

“Mycroft, you made it!” Barbara Daly exclaims when she clasps eyes on them, not even allowing them enough time to grab a flute of champagne. She exudes holiday cheer, even without the Christmas red lady suit she is wearing. “And this must be your partner, pleasure to meet you. Barbara Daly.”

Gregory accepts her proffered hand without hesitation. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Thank you for the invitation, ma’am.” 

“You’re very welcome, detective. You did after all win me a bottle of twenty-six-year-old Glenfiddich.”

“I did?” Gregory echoes, shooting Mycroft a confused glance. Mycroft feels his eyebrows rise. 

“Gareth and I had ourselves a little wager, you see. I think he’s talking with my husband… ah, there he is!” 

As they follow the woman, Mycroft gives Gregory’s arm a reassuring squeeze and places the hand not gripping the cane on the man’s lower back. He can see the tension ease from Gregory’s shoulders slightly.

“Bloody hell, is that the head of MI6?” Gregory mutters, soft enough for only Mycroft to hear. 

“I’m afraid it is.”

He cannot say more for Mrs Daly is taking over the introductions, smirking when she points out Gregory’s relationship with Mycroft. From what he can gather, Gareth Millstone thought Mycroft would come alone while Daly bet he would bring someone, thus earning herself a £350 bottle of whiskey. 

Gareth quickly changes the topic, congratulating Gregory on his work on the Moriarty case and thus effectively dazzling the detective by knowing his name and occupation. 

It is a theme that continues throughout the reception as several more prolific guests come up to Mycroft to express their surprise at his attendance only to then proclaim delight at meeting his partner. 

“This pillar might offer some reprieve,” Mycroft suggests after an exhausting fifty minutes of small talk, causing Gregory to laugh. 

“The great Mycroft Holmes, hiding behind a pillar?” 

“Unless you want to spend the next five minutes listening to the State Secretary’s wife gush about her children…”

“All right, all right, come on.”

On their way Gregory takes two cups of eggnog from a passing waiter and they settle into a comfortable silence with their truly delicious beverages. If staying here for the rest of the night were allowed, Mycroft would be more than pleased.

Unfortunately, they are both grown men and not preschoolers, so when the ballroom doors open and the 246 people spill into the luxurious room, they have to emerge from their hiding place. Being amongst the last ones has one downside, however – they practically run into the Prime Minister and his wife, having arrived right from the office if Mycroft remembers the man’s calendar correctly. 

“Mycroft!” 

Henry Cavendish’s greetings always belie a more exuberant rapport between them that actually exists. Yet the current PM is a clever politician, fully aware of the pivotal role Mycroft plays within the United Kingdom, and thus he insists on being on a first-name basis and giving him expensive bottles of bourbon for his birthday. 

Cavendish also has no idea about the extent of Mycroft’s involvement in the Moriarty scandal, buying the tale MI5 and MI6 have spun that brands the late Lord Moran a foreign spy responsible for all the shady acts of treason Mycroft has committed.

(“England needs you, and both Gareth and Barbara agree,” had been the explanation of Mycroft’s boss. At the time, Mycroft was too surprised and high on pain medication to argue against it.) 

He accepts the pat on the back the Prime Minister offers him and compliments his wife’s dress before presenting Gregory. 

Where other men might have flailed, stammered or simply been too taken aback by such an unplanned encounter with the leader of their country, the only sign of nervousness Mycroft can pick up from Gregory is the slightest widening of his eyes. By the time he is shaking hands with Henry, he has schooled his features once more. 

“And why is this the first time I hear of your special someone, Mycroft?” Henry teases. “You didn’t think I’d have a problem, did you?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft says, completely honest. The current PM did support the equal marriage bill, after all. 

“We just haven’t been serious for long,” Gregory cuts in smoothly, aiming a smile at Mycroft that does strange things to his pulse. “Our jobs, you know.”

“So, how did you meet?” Mrs Cavendish asks, and Mycroft lets Gregory relate that particular story as they accompany the couple into the dining room. 

Given the informal nature of this party, Mycroft is not surprised to see a buffet lining one side of the large ballroom. One might even describe his sentiment as grateful since a buffet precludes any awkward and stilted conversation around a table of a motley group of people. 

“Well, it’s lovely meeting you,” Mrs Cavendish gushes when Gregory pauses long enough for her to express her support. “If you don’t have plans for New Years Eve, please join us at Downing Street.”

Mycroft resists the urge to roll his eyes. Henry’s wife is a skilled accomplice in her husband’s plan to cement a good relationship with the Civil Service. The detective turns towards him with a startled look, obviously asking how he should respond. Mycroft gives him his best ‘up to you’ expression, grateful that the man knows him well enough by now to decipher it. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’ve already been invited by Mycroft’s brother.”

“Drat, we’d have loved to have you!” Henry says, and thankfully that is the moment one of the MPs interrupts and steals the Prime Minister’s attention. 

“Good safe,” Mycroft concedes, though receives a dry chuckle. 

“Who said it’s a safe?” Gregory grins. “John actually did invite me last time we went for a pint.”

Oh, yes – somehow, the detective and the doctor have evolved into best mates. 

“Does my brother know they are hosting guests yet?”

“’Course not!” Gregory says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “That’s half the fun.”

They eventually brave the buffet where his companion surprises Mycroft by simply filling his plate for him after checking which food he likes, thus solving the logistics problem of walking with a cane and selecting a meal that Mycroft has been pondering since the doors opened. 

There are tables but they seat between eight and ten people each and neither of them wants to be forced into inane small talk, so they seek out one of the smaller high tables in a faraway corner, Gregory taking over the duty of refilling their plates and getting drinks from passing waiters. 

They spend the second hour of the event like this, with Gregory asking intelligent questions about some of the guests and Mycroft showing off a little by deducing that the Secretary for Transport is thinking his wife is having an affair and other amusing details. 

“You’re even better at this than Sherlock,” Gregory concludes after one especially complex deduction involving the Cabinet Secretary’s breakfast food of choice, an umbrella, and his niece’s pet corgi. 

Mycroft has to actively stop his chest from swelling with pride at the praise. He cannot stop himself from agreeing, though. “I’ve always been the smart one.”

Gregory raises an eyebrow. “Can’t imagine growing up with Sherlock, let alone two of you.”

“Yes, our parents had their hands full. Good thing they kept us homeschooled for as long as they did.”

“Homeschooled, yeah. That explains a lot.” 

Usually when people direct that particular phrase at Mycroft – on the rare occasion that he shares such personal information – their tone is derogatory. Not now, however. Gregory’s tone is almost fond. Or is that just wishful thinking on Mycroft’s part? 

He mentally chides himself. No one has ever been fond of him, and there is no reason for the detective to start now. 

Gregory is observing him with a strange look Mycroft is unable to name, falling somewhere between pensive and calculating. “Can’t imagine what the world looks like from your perspective. Got to be boring as hell.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“How do you stand it? I mean, Sherlock’s got his cases, and now John. You spend all day running this country and making sure no one starts a war, or what?”

“You know I cannot divulge any details, Gregory.”

“Yeah, but I’m close, eh?”

Mycroft allows the smile tugging at his lips to take over his features. Gregory laughs and goes off to fetch them dessert, completely unaware of Mycroft’s eyes sliding appreciatively down his back.

If he were a lesser man, Mycroft would be burying his head in his hands now. Sometimes he really wishes he were, only to be awarded a reprieve from his mind that has yet to receive the message that crushes are for normal people, not for the likes of him. 

Then Gregory returns with a smirk and a piece of cake and two forks and Mycroft regrets ever placating Daly with a yes. 

*

Greg sees her on his way back from the toilet just as he rejoins Mycroft at their table and can’t stop the curse that escapes him. 

“Bollocks!”

Mycroft’s gaze turns alarmed and he follows Greg’s line of sight to where none other than his first ex-wife is standing, still curvaceous and blonde but wearing expensive jewellery and a dress that looks like it’s been stolen from some runway at a fashion show. 

“Your ex-wife, I take it?”

Of course the bloke figured it out in point-oh-three seconds. Greg runs a hand through his hair. “Well, she’s always been ambitious.”

“I’d say. Her new husband is the Solicitor General, Robert Finch. MP for Ashford. Ambitious man, albeit a little… dull.”

From Mycroft’s lips that sounds like the world’s gravest insult. Maybe for the man, it is. 

“I’m afraid he is making his way over to us,” Mycroft adds with a frown, glancing across Greg’s shoulder. 

He closes his eyes briefly, trying to think of a way to get out of this situation. Then he realises something. 

“Hang on – does that bloke know who you are?” A nod, and Greg grins. “Brilliant.”

He can see that Mycroft finds his change in demeanour slightly puzzling for a second before he, too, realises that in the vicious fight for the upper hand between two former spouses, Greg’s relationship with Mycroft actually has him at an advantage. 

“Mr Holmes, what a surprise to see you here,” a male voice that must belong to this Robert Finch sounds from Greg’s left and they both turn towards the other couple as Mycroft greets the Solicitor General. 

“And may I introduce –”

But Sharon is too surprised by Greg’s presence to remember much of social protocol or whatever people here adhere to, gasping out his name as recognition hits her. 

“Sharon,” Greg says, feeling decidedly smug. “What a surprise.”

“Oh, have you met?” Finch wonders, prompting Greg to hold out his hand. 

“Greg Lestrade, Sharon’s ex-husband. Nice to meet you.”

“Uh, the pleasure’s mine,” Finch mumbles, shaking his hand. He blinks owlishly at Greg before looking at Mycroft and Greg can’t decide whether it’s shock at running into his wife’s ex or at finding out Mycroft is here with a man. Maybe both. 

“Sharon, this is Mycroft, my partner.”

It takes a second before Sharon offers her hand, which Mycroft takes with a pleasant smile. Only Greg sees the mirth hidden in the man’s features. 

“And what do you do, sir?” Sharon asks, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile. 

“Oh, I occupy a minor position in the British government,” is Mycroft’s smooth reply and Greg has to bite his tongue to supress the laughter bubbling up in his chest. 

“Don’t believe a word he says,” Finch cuts in. “Without Mr Holmes the Kingdom would implode, that’s for sure.”

Ah, flattery. Now Greg understands why Finch wanted to say hello to Mycroft. They are at an event that lends itself to networking, after all. 

“I apologise for being blunt, Greg,” Sharon says, her tone icy, “but I never knew you also fancied men.”

Greg smiles, seizing the chance to wrap an arm around Mycroft’s waist before he can talk himself out of it. “Well, I guess it wasn’t important between us.”

“What does it make you, then? Bisexual, I believe is the term?”

Greg turns his smile towards Finch who still looks like he just bit into a particularly bitter, fresh lemon. He’s sure that if he googles it later, Finch will turn out to be one of the MPs who voted against the equal marriage bill. 

“Yes, it is.”

“Is there a problem, Mr Solicitor?” Mycroft asks, slick as an eel, shifting a little to get closer to him. Greg has to stifle a chuckle. 

Faced with such blatant provocation, Finch quickly shakes his head. “No, why would – it’s great that you found someone again.”

“I just seem to remember a rather passionate speech you gave before Parliament, arguing against equal marriage, Mr Solicitor. I hope we aren’t making you uncomfortable?”

Greg is sure that Mycroft can feel the vibrations of his suppressed laughter through the fabric of his suit where his hand has come to rest against his ribs. 

The Solicitor General, meanwhile, blanches as it becomes clear that whatever brown-nosing he was planning on doing tonight would come across as the hypocritical political posturing he intended it to be. Sharon is glaring for whatever reason makes sense in her blonde little head. 

Needless to say, the couple flees shortly after with nothing but a perfunctory and stilted goodbye. Once they are out of earshot, Greg finally succumbs to the laughter and for one glorious minute he buries his face in Mycroft’s shoulder as his shoulders shake. When he pulls back, the other man is grinning too. 

“That was brilliant,” Greg tells him. 

A faint blush colours Mycroft’s cheeks, though that is the only reaction he gets from the man before another MP interrupts, wondering why Mr Finch bolted from their conversation, and it’s back to mindless small talk. 

Somehow in the process, Mycroft’s right hand hasn’t been withdrawn from Greg’s hip yet. Well, he sure as hell isn’t reminding him. 

*

Ten o’clock, the time Mycroft originally declared the point when leaving would not incur any discontent, passes by without him actively noticing. 

This, Mycroft swiftly decides, is all Gregory’s fault. The man relocated them to the hotel’s Mirror Room that is equipped with the promised open bar after what Gregory presumably believed to be a covert glance at Mycroft’s grip on his cane. Truth be told, the chance to sit down was well timed. 

They found a vacant love seat (and shared an ironic grin at the discovery) and had some reprieve until other guests abandoned the ballroom in search for more liquor. Then Mycroft spent a mesmerising half hour watching Gregory talk about football with a member of Daly’s staff before two businessmen took the armchairs next to Mycroft’s place on the futon. Their conversation was intelligent enough to distract him from Gregory’s passionate rant about the newest Arsenal coach, 

( – yet not intelligent enough to take his mind off the fact that their legs were pressed together and that every few sentences, Gregory would place his hand on Mycroft’s right knee – ) 

and he occupies himself for a memorable hour by debating the flaws of the current stock market system, including the risks presented by automatic trading algorithms. 

The next time Mycroft’s eyes find his pocket watch when his bladder demands attention, it is almost eleven. He blinks at his reflection in the toilet room mirror, barely recognising this man with colour high in his cheeks, touch-drunk from a couple of hours spent in close proximity to a certain DI. 

The door opens then, startling him out of his musings. Unfortunately, it is none other than Gareth Millstone in his tall, corpulent glory, whose face lights up when he sees who is already at the sink. 

“You’re still here,” he states, a twinkle in his eyes. “Now, I wonder why that is.”

“Smugness does not become you, Gareth.” 

“And pining does not become you, Mycroft.”

He stops what would have been a truly petulant retort a split second before it falls from his lips. Among all of his colleagues, Gareth is the closest anyone has ever come to being a friend, simply on the grounds that they have known each other for almost thirty years, ever since Mycroft joined the Civil Service right out of university and Gareth was a junior agent in His Majesty’s Secret Service. 

If anyone were to figure out Gregory is only here as a favour to Mycroft, it would be Gareth, who by the looks of it is enjoying Mycroft’s dilemma a little too much. 

“Oh, come on! I’ve never seen you so much as flustered! I have to make the most of this,” Gareth laughs when Mycroft says something to that effect. “But do England and yourself a favour, all right?”

Mycroft arches a questioning eyebrow, hoping it will prompt Millstone into making his point faster. It works, in a way. 

“Ask him out when this is over. I swear he’s going to say yes. God knows why, but I’d bet another overpriced bottle of whisky on it.”

Thankfully, the man does not wait for a reply before slipping into an empty stall, allowing Mycroft to return to the Mirror Room, his throat dry and his heart beating a staccato against his ribs. 

*

Greg is smiling when they leave the hotel. He’s warm from high-shelf booze and giddy from sitting close to Mycroft for a long stretch of time, and later he’s going to blame it all on that disastrous combination of touch and alcohol. 

Really, there is no other explanation for what he does when both of them step outside (after Mycroft revealed his inner gentleman by helping Greg into his coat). 

“Listen,” Greg begins, turning abruptly to face the other man and gauging his mood. Mycroft’s cheeks are still flushed and he seems more relaxed than Greg has ever seen him. He swallows around the lump in his throat. Has Mycroft already deduced what he’s going to say? What if he’s ignoring it because he doesn’t feel the same way? Sure, Greg’s confident in his detective skills, but he’s been wrong before – 

“Gregory? Is everything fine?”

Hearing Mycroft say his name like that gives him the last bout of courage he needs. Greg takes a deep breath and meets Mycroft’s narrowed eyes. 

“Brilliant, actually. I had a good time. And I’d like to see you again.”

He tries for a smile, but it probably comes across as more of a wince given how bloody nervous he is. Christ, he’s on the wrong side of forty, he shouldn’t feel like a sodding school boy bracing himself for his first rejection. 

Which doesn’t come. 

Nothing comes, to be precise, because Mycroft is staring at him like he’s grown two heads. Well. 

“Or not,” he says, tone turning clipped. “You know what, I’ll just take a cab home, all right?”

It wasn’t an actual question and Greg has turned around before he finished the sentence, biting his lips at his own foolishness. This is Mycroft Holmes he asked out! Has he gone completely bonkers? Holmes doesn’t date, full stop. And if he did, he certainly wouldn’t choose some streetwise detective who needs his brother to solve his cases for him. 

“Gregory!” 

He stops, squaring his shoulders as he listens to the approaching footsteps on the cold pavement. There is the tap of a cane, too, so it really was Mycroft who called after him. 

“Yeah?” he challenges, but deflates immediately when he comes face to face with Mycroft. It’s the most expressive he has ever seen him allow himself to be and it’s just Greg’s luck that he can’t even name half of the emotions he sees. 

“I apologise. You caught me off guard.”

Greg shrugs. Mycroft adjusts his grip on his cane and that is when Greg realises one of the emotions is _nerviness_. 

“Are you nervous?” he blurts, aware that his mouth is hanging open but he doesn’t care right now. There’re more important things to deal with. 

Like Mycroft averting his eyes. Like Mycroft blushing. 

“I make you nervous?” 

It’s not quite a question but definitely a whisper, though Mycroft must have caught it for he gives a jerky nod. 

“And I would love to go out with you again, Gregory,” he adds. 

“Really?”

Mycroft takes a step towards him. Suddenly the space between them seems too wide for Greg and at the same time barely there at all. 

“You do. I had planned on asking you out when we reached your flat. However I did not expect you beating me to it.”

“What, you thought I was gonna say no?” Mycroft’s eyes clearly say ‘obviously’ even if the man doesn’t reply. “Why the hell would I do that? Granted, it’s a little intimidating that you’re on a first-name basis with the PM, but other than that…”

“Is that really the only reason you can gauge that speaks against dating me?” It sounds like a genuine question, though the corners of Mycroft’s lips are twitching like he is trying to supress a smile, so Greg goes along. 

“Well, let’s see… you’re smarter than me, but that’s actually a plus. You’ve got an annoying brother, but he’s busy shagging his ‘soulmate’, so he can’t make too much of a git of himself right now… and your habit of kidnapping people really is rather hot, so…”

The last bit gets a chuckle from Mycroft and Greg seizes the chance and closes the distance between them, placing himself right inside Mycroft’s space with his heart pounding in his throat. 

“Hot?” Mycroft echoes, confused and flattered at the same time as far as Greg can tell. 

Greg smirks. “Hot,” he confirms, then lifts his head and covers Mycroft’s lips with his. 

As far as first kisses go, it’s not perfect. Their skin is cold from the brief exposure to the icy night air and Mycroft is too startled to reciprocate much, but regardless of all that it still has Greg’s pulse racing. 

“Come on,” he says, taking a hold of Mycroft’s free hand. “The car’s here.”

*

Mycroft wonders if someone slipped something into his drink at the hotel without him noticing. Either that, or Gregory Lestrade’s thumb is actually stroking the back of his hand on the car ride back to his flat. 

He feels dazed, the touch of Gregory’s lips on his still lingering like a phantom ache as they sit in comfortable silence until the vehicle comes to a halt. 

The partition is up, which is probably the main reason why the other man slides closer then. Mycroft holds completely still, unsure of what to expect. Warm hands cup his face and then Gregory is kissing him again, waiting patiently for Mycroft to break out of his stupor and return the kiss. 

He is by no means inexperienced, having engaged in his fair share of sexual experimentation in college during his last, somewhat desperate attempt to fit in with his peers (something he has given up since then). It has been a long while however, and his movements are rusty for the first strokes of Gregory’s tongue until Mycroft’s mind supplies a few tricks he learnt long ago. 

Three minutes later, the detective is moaning, pulling back but keeping his fingers on the lapels of Mycroft’s suit as he catches his breath. 

“Dinner tomorrow,” Gregory gasps. “My treat.” 

“At a shabby, hole-in-the-wall restaurant?” Mycroft recalls their initial backstory and earns a sly grin in return. 

“If you insist.”

“I’ll be sure to wear one of my older suits, then.”

Greg laughs, then withdraws his hand from Mycroft’s chest with obvious reluctance. “Text me when you’re free.”

Mycroft nods. “Goodnight, Gregory.”

Instead of a verbal response, he gets another kiss, nothing more than a brief peck really, before the inspector climbs out of the car, which starts moving again as soon as the door falls shut.

Mycroft glances down at his cane. Maybe coming out alive was a mercy after all.

**Author's Note:**

> In this sense: happy holidays, fellow Sherlockians =) I hope reading this brought you as much joy as writing it brought me! I’d love to hear your thoughts?
> 
> PS: I have already completed the NYE-centric sequel and will post it on Wednesday, 30 December.
> 
> [[my tumblr](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/)]


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